


Touch Faith

by horseparkour



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: God Complex, Look idk why I wrote this honestly, Masturbation, Metaphors, No Plot/Plotless, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, This is just me liking the Rust AUs I've seen, This is just self-indulgent, cult leader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:47:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29077347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horseparkour/pseuds/horseparkour
Summary: With his hands, he carves out his new reality. With his mouth, he speaks the very existence of love and light into the universe. His ears hear the words of angels and his feet walk the path of righteousness.Everything before him was temporary, and everything after him is his property.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 213





	Touch Faith

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the SBI Rust Cult Leader AU bullshit. So uh.

**Touch Faith**

He’s a god.

He’s a god and he is fully aware he is so. With his hands, he carves out his new reality. With his mouth, he speaks the very existence of love and light into the universe. His ears hear the words of angels and his feet walk the path of righteousness.

Everything before him was temporary, and everything after him is his property. 

He looks at himself in the mirror, brown eyes meeting in the reflection, and he smiles. The corners of his eyes crease up in their own half moons. Waterdrops of sweat fall from his long lashes and trail down the hills of his chapped plump lips. 

God is gorgeous. It’s no wonder why so many people fall for him. It’s no wonder that he has droves of loyal, loving followers. He was so pretty. Look at him - he has the bone structure of a Greek hero. 

He _was_ a hero. He’s a titan. He’s life and death in human form. 

He’s a god.

He strips his coat from his shoulders without his eyes ever breaking their honey-iron gaze. The coat hits the ground with a thud and a cloud of red dust rises like a nuclear mushroom. The scarf and shirt come next, joining each other in a pile of intestine-like tangles. His pants and belt are the icing on top. They create a torn tapestry on the ground, framing him in a halo of second-hand destruction.

He keeps his shoes on. It’s no use washing his own feet - he would have a disciple do it for him.

He maintains eye contact with himself and strips his fingerless gloves and beanie off. They get put gently by the side of the bathroom sink. The cramped room, wooden and bloodied with rust, looks just as dirty as him and his belongings. There’s the remnants of a shower behind him, the shattered remains of a toilet to his right. But the sink? The sink is untouched.

So it doesn’t matter that he’s dirty. Because he can wash. He is God, and God gets to use the only functioning bathroom in the entire commune. He is the only man who gets the running water because he isn’t a man.

Someone tried to argue that they _all_ deserve the bathroom a few weeks ago. That couldn’t happen. He didn’t _like_ that so he put a crowbar through that stray man’s jaw. 

He didn’t hang him like he had done to other dissenters. No, no. He was much too angry to sit and plan a death at that moment. He just needed the death to _happen._ He needed to feel the adrenaline in the tips of his fingers. He needed to feel his own chest collapse from the shock. He needed death. And when he said that someone would die, they would die. He was the ruler of the veil. He decided if life was taken away. 

He’s a god. 

He looks down at his hands. The radiation burns and twisted scars look like tattoos or tiger stripes or decayed veins. They’re stark white, white as snow, with pink edges and a texture like pavement. He traces each path of tissue from his fingertips to his elbows. The feeling of the rough skin under his soft fingerpads sends a chill right up his spine. 

He glances at himself in the mirror and smirks. His underwear, already tight, is showing his growing bulge as clear as day. 

The too-yellow overhead light flickers as he moves both his hands to his stomach. He flicks at his ribs, and he can’t stop himself from laughing. They would look much worse if he was anyone else. But he was God, and God got the first pick of the daily rations. He was a merciful god, though, and he would let his blonde-haired protege choose first sometimes. But it was mostly him. Because he deserved it. 

It was amazing, really. The world had to fall low for him to rise high. God had to rid the world of sinners and surround himself with believers. This just made that process easier. 

He turns on the water in the sink. It didn’t matter what handle he used. The water was all one temperature anyway. It was warm, like the earth itself, and it carried a slightly yellow color that was reminiscent of the tannins that were probably chipping away at his skin and his sanity. He chuckles to himself as he let it slide over his fingers. It made his scars burn. It left a residue when he pulls his hand away.

But it cleared away the dust.

That was what set him apart from the mortal men that dug the soil around his home: he could be free of the dust.

No one else could clear their skin of the poison. No one else could have a clean face, or have all of their teeth. No one else could touch something without tainting it.

But he can. His hands _can_ be cleaned.

He cups his hands and threw water over his face. He felt it trail down his throat to his collarbones and he splashed it up on him again, and again. He kept going until his chest was dripping and his eyes were on fire from the tainted water. The veins in his eyes popped out and turned red, making him look like a rabid dog as he bared his teeth at himself in the mirror.

He let out a snarl. He whispers a threat to an invisible enemy behind him.

He’s a god.

The water pools in the craters on his chest - burn boils turned to deep concave marks that made his skin bright orange like the sun but patterned like the moon. He was the entire solar system, he was a star, he was a rocketship. His skin was an entire galaxy of war, the fossils of a time quickly becoming the past.

He scoops up water and rubs it on his chest, down his torso. He caresses his stomach and a small self-satisfied moan escapes his lips. The water was starting to wet the hem of his underwear. It all felt colder, closer to his member, and it made him start to shiver a bit. All the shivering did was egg him onwards, dragging his hand to the elastic edge. 

His left thumb slips under it at the exact moment his right hand cascades more water against his stomach. It pours from his belly button down his happy trail and he throws his head back. 

Pleasuring himself was a righteous act. This was his sabbath. This was his seventh day. He slipped his entire hand down under his remaining clothes and started to pump fast and hard, with no prep or slick. He didn’t _need_ it. His pleasure was a given. No extra steps were needed. He dug his teeth so hard into his lip that his blood leaked out. The metallic taste made him feel a bolt of pleasure shoot down both his legs. He was practically shaking with excitement. 

There was limited time to do anything nowadays. Definitely no time to worship himself the ways he needed it. Even when he carved out the time, he had to rush himself. He _shouldn’t_ have to rush himself. The world was nothing but rushing and rusting away. It was upsetting. It was _unfair._

Things shouldn’t be unfair for him. 

He’s a god, after all.

Fair is fake. The idea of anything being even or equal is fake. The world is fake. He’s the only thing that’s real. He is the Dome. He is God. He is above everyone. 

He moans again as he starts to feel it. Things start to peak inside of him, his pelvis twitching and his hand moving harder and faster on his manhood.

He is the beauty within the decay. He is the lone flower in the middle of the desert. He is the sun, he is the moon, he is every star that every stupid person has the pleasure of accidentally seeing when they look up.

He looks up and makes eye contact with himself again. He smiles. He winks. And he finishes inside of his underwear.

He washes his hands, because he can. He does it just to remind himself that he is better than anyone else. He does it to make himself feel good. He does it to feel like God.

He finishes his makeshift shower and he’s clean. He’s cleansed, he’s free of the earth under his fingers. He’s purged. His soul is scrubbed. He’s wearing a new skin. He cleaned his hair while he’s at it, and his curls bounced back strong. Free from the heavy sweat, they are luscious.

He shakes out his clothes, washed them in the sink and then he moved to take his soaked clothes back with him as he slipped out of the bathroom and into his bedroom. His bed is the only one that’s elevated off the dirt - his companion has a couch but that’s not the same and he makes sure to make everyone know that it isn’t. Only God gets a bed. A bed that’s away from the dust.

He lays down in the bed. He’s between clean sheets with his clean body, beautiful plush cotton against beautiful plush skin. He’s in a cloud. He lives in the atmosphere. He sleeps among the ozone. He swims in it. His dreams reach far beyond the survivable areas they’ve happened to accidentally find. In his mind, he’s a bird and he flies far outside the exposure zone. He knows that's where he belongs. 

It never takes him long to fall asleep. He’s a generous god. He gets his hands dirty like the rest of his people. He puts in the work. His body aches just like everyone else's. He works. He knows how to work.

But he stops. Unlike everyone else, he can stop and he can bathe. He can look upon his hands and see lines free of earth. 

He’s clean. And tomorrow he can get clean again. And again. And again.

This is how it’s meant to be.

He’s a god.

**Author's Note:**

> idk what this is and I'm sorry, I'm autistic and hyperfixated, let me do my cursed little thing over here


End file.
